


Today, tomorrow, tonight

by Wildflowerfield



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Riza-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 00:13:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12852549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildflowerfield/pseuds/Wildflowerfield
Summary: This is how you don’t pray; asking for forgiveness is futile, and you are atheistic, are you not?





	Today, tomorrow, tonight

**Author's Note:**

> well, it's not a long fic by any chance, but I am really pleased with how it's turned out. This is how I imagine Riza, and her relationship with Roy.

There are moments you define your past, and there are moments the past defines you; you try your best to be the former, but sometimes you can’t help but drown in the latter. It is only natural, you know, for someone like you to be suffocated under the weight of her sins; there is a country of them. The air is crisp and electric, but all you can taste is the pungent tar of desert storm, lashes of screams cutting your face, and pools of darkness dragging you down; you can’t run. You don’t want to, anyway. Instead, you let the welling darkness inside you rampage through your body, devouring you alive. You have never understood the idea of running away: your father had trained you not to, therefore you don’t run, not even now, when you yourself is an inferno, black slick flames licking the side of your cheeks, reminding you of the monster you have become. You don’t run, so you turn to him.

He is your redemption, your salvation, your repentance all in one. You might laugh at the irony that it is you who turned him into a weapon, and yet he is the one who offers you the only haven, despite all the bridges you have drowned in blood. He offers you a dream, young and naïve, maybe a bit overwhelming at times, but you have never thought of it as foolish, and it is your duty to make it into a reality. This is how you don’t pray; asking for forgiveness is futile, and you are atheistic, are you not? The last time you walked into a church was in a coup and you were assigned to the bell tower, and the time before that your mother’s funeral. The path was marked with fleur-des-lys, and you did not shed a single tear.

Maybe one day, you will be in that small chapel again, your body cold and unmoving, your eyes closed. Maybe you’ll hold a boutique of fleur-des-lys, just like your mother did, once. Maybe. When the time comes, you will welcome it with open arms, and finally cut the worn out string of the puppet of you and kneel in front of the ruins of the bodies of your sins. But now:

You are 3 steps behind him. His shoulders are broad, and his back is cloaked in blue. It is your duty to build his dream, brick by brick, no matter what it takes. Not even your life. Not even his. So you raise the gun, aim at his heart, and tell him to stop before the last bridge burns down. Somewhere, somewhere, in the back of your head, of your heart, of your bones and marrows, of your being, scream at you, s _top stop stop you won’t live without him stop stops stop you’ll die like this-_

But you are your father’s daughter, though you have ceased to be that a long time ago, but you are, still, your father’s daughter, with hands that burn even if you scream; so, you don’t stop.

-What will you do after I am dead?

 _What else can I do?_ You wonder. What else can you do when the last chance of repentance is shot down too, by your own bloodied hands, and the world is now not a possibility anymore, but just regret of the past? What else can you do when your last anchor, the last part of your soul is lost? You don’t ask him that. The answer is clear enough.

-I have no desire to live a carefree, happy life alone. After this battle, my body will leave this world together with the Flame Alchemy that only brings insanity.

You can see him wavering. Please, be that be enough. Please, you pray, even though you don’t pray; but for him, _please_.

-That… won’t do.

You feel like your world tilts back into its axis with the explosion. This is your repentance, you remind yourself, he’s your redemption, and you may have sinned, but this, this has always been the right choice. To follow him. To stand beside him. To protect him.

To love him.

Later, you would be the one to guide him; your eyes aren’t bright but they are acute, you have yet to miss a mark, and you won’t let him miss one, not now, even if the world is chaotic and you are burning blood red- this is a brick of his dream. Later, you would not cry for his vision, but your heart would loosen when you hear his command. Your head hurts and you feel faint, maybe it’s the blood loss, maybe it’s him. You don’t care; this is more than enough. You are not religious, but you thank the Gods for the rare act of kindness.

Later, when the world is silent and the aftermath stops tasting like gunpowder and fire, you would lie down with him, IV lines and all. He is silent, and so are you, and you have never needed words to bare yourselves to each other. Not even now. You curl your hand around his- pale and sinewy and resilient: this is his weapon and your future- and he would smile, subtlety, mournfully, a light curl of lips in the drowning silence of this starless night. There would be no words as you lean in, his breath on your cheek feels like a caress of a lover, as you lay your head on his chest, as your tear drops on his calming heartbeat. Later, your hands would entwine as you fall asleep, midnight lights spill into the room, and you wouldn’t dream of anything else. Later, no words would be needed, has never been needed, even as he leans in, eyes bright and seeing, and kiss you. His kiss would taste like fire, and salvation, and you would listen to the way your future sings. But now:

You are 3 steps behind him. His shoulders are broad, and his back is cloaked in blue. His vision is worth dying for, but he apologizes and you lower your gun. You can feel your relief; it’s so much that you fall onto the floor with him. But the battle has yet to end. So he stands in front of you, his hand cloaked in white. This is your repentance:

-Let’s go.

This is only the beginning.


End file.
